Page 153 of Convict's Game

“Not deliver the woman to the brothel. All I can think is that she probably died in that fire or suffered some other awful fate.”

“If you hadn’t taken her there, someone else would’ve. You weren’t responsible.”

But some other man was.

He watched me carefully. “Do you know if your family ever paid off officials? Maybe customs?”

He meant my grandfather. I swallowed. “Not that I knew of. Call me naïve if you want, but I still can’t think that my grandfather would do something like this. If only you knew him. He was the gentlest, kindest man. He was always respectful, and he took care of everyone. Me, his extended family, his employees. I never once heard him make a poor taste comment, even as a joke. No one had a bad word to say about him.”

Aside from the anonymous emails, though I had my suspicions.

“I can’t explain why Presley was there either. My grandfather didn’t like him. He never worked for the business, though his mother asked that my grandfather give him a job.”

Convict snapped his fingers. “That’s his name. I’d forgot and called him Mini Marchant-Smythe. Pissed him off even more. Feels right that he’d be hating on the business. He said something that might not be nice to hear.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“That he wanted to know if your grandfather had lined his cabin in gold like his coffin.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That doesn’t make any sense. He didn’t even have a cabin on theEden?—”

My words dried up. I reached for my phone.

Ever since getting home, I’d ignored it to get wrapped up in my boyfriend. But Presley’s words were too specific.

They were a clue.

When I unlocked my screen, I almost wished I hadn’t.

Multiple news articles flooded in from an alert I had on the Marchant Haulage name. TheEdenhad been raised, and with it came a rush of interest in the company’s inbox.

Convict busied himself with organising dinner, claiming he was fine and I needed to stop worrying, and I sorted through the messages, forwarding any requests for interview or comment to the caretaker company and not bothering to ask my grandmother if she wanted to make a statement.

Then I shot a message to Lovelyn, asking if she’d seen any police write-up of what they’d found, as the newspaper articles were light on detail of anything other than the salvage operation.

No reply came.

I hoped she was okay after waking from the knockout gas.

Lastly, I hovered over the folder for the hate mail I’d received. Right where the clue had led.

Opening it, I selected the top one and hit reply.

MarchantHaulage: Give it up, Presley. It’s all over.

A minute later, and a single-word reply came in.

Anonymous: Bitch.

I laughed and showed it to Convict. “That bitter little asshole, sending messages like that because the gravy train had run dry. Maybe he’ll grow up and get a job now.”

“You sound like me.”

I did. I’d changed a lot in the past month or two. Gone was the woman who believed blindly in the family business, and replacing her was someone stronger. Someone in search of the truth, even if it hurt.

At my throat, I picked up the gold-and-diamond necklace with my initial. “I swore I’d wear this to never forget my grandfather.”

But until I knew…